If Kisses Were Snowflakes Page 2

  Hal narrowed his eyes at being called a problem, but he didn’t bite.

  “Well?” Charles asked.

  “It’s not done yet,” Hal said.

  Charles shrugged. “Then I guess you’d better get back to work. It needs to be finished before the Christmas break. Which begins tomorrow.”

  Hal couldn’t hold back any longer. “It was an unreasonable deadline, and you know it. You can’t give me three days to complete a two-week project without expecting the quality to suffer.”

  “I can do anything I like,” Charles said, getting to his feet. “I’m your boss.”

  There was a long silence, during which both men stared at each other, refusing to back down.

  “You’re trying to force my hand,” Hal said eventually. “You’re trying to make me quit because you can’t find a way to sack me.”

  Charles adjusted a file on his desk. “We both know you’d be happier elsewhere.”

  “I have responsibilities.” Hal’s heart felt like a battering ram trying to break through his ribs. “Debts to pay. As you well know.”

  Charles said nothing, but his lips curved a fraction upward.

  In the background, laughter and cheers accompanied Michael Bublé’s Let it Snow, where the office party was in full swing. It was like listening to a dance song at a funeral. Hal couldn’t have felt less festive at that moment.

  He waited a few heartbeats, fighting against a growing sense of despair. He would have loved nothing more than to throw Charles a right hook and walk away from the job, but he needed the money until he could find himself another position. He was stuck there, and they both knew it. He couldn’t get out of this argument and keep both his pride and his job. He was going to have to suck it up.

  “I can’t work late tonight,” he stated. “You know I have Brenna and Jamie this week. They’re with the babysitter at the moment, but the tide turns at seven thirty. I have to get home.”

  Charles shrugged. “Not my problem.”

  “It is your problem,” Hal pointed out. His soon-to-be-ex-wife would quiz their kids about their time with him, and would undoubtedly wheedle out of them that he’d been late several times. “If Rebecca’s pissed off with me, she’ll only take it out on you.”

  “No, she won’t. I always know how to get around her.” Charles smirked.

  Nausea rose inside Hal at the thought of Charles and Rebecca together. It had been a long time since he’d felt attracted to her, and if she’d ended up with anyone else, he might have been pleased that she’d finally found happiness. But he couldn’t deny a prehistoric, feral anger at the thought of her sleeping with this man.

  “If I knew you enjoyed my castoffs, I’d have passed on the jeans I threw away last week,” he said.

  Charles’s smile faded. “Yeah, keep it up. How easy do you think it’s going to be to get another job without a reference from this one?”

  Hal held his gaze, reason fighting with resentment. He would have given anything to smash the fucker’s face in, but it was futile to get annoyed. Revenge would be a dish he’d have to serve not just cold but at absolute zero.

  He would serve it, though. If nothing else, he promised himself that.

  Charles’s lips twisted in a sneer at Hal’s apparent lack of emotion. “You really don’t care, do you? Rebecca was right to call you Mr. Frosty. Everyone thought you were so fucking cool at university. Nobody realized it was because you’ve got ice in your veins, not blood.” He stopped, his eyes daring Hal to respond.

  Turning, Hal walked out without saying another word and went back to his office.

  He sat there for five minutes, looking out at the rain, waiting for his heart to slow down.

  He could walk out now, forget about the project, and go home. But Charles would use that as evidence of incompetence, and he didn’t want to give the ass any excuse to fire him.

  He could rush the job through, hand it in without bothering to double check the figures or proofread it. But his pride wouldn’t let him do that. He wouldn’t let this man destroy the reputation he’d built up over the years as the top architectural illustrator at English Heritage.

  He just wished his decree absolute—the final notice of his divorce—had come through before Christmas. Although in one way it would have made him sad, in another it would have felt like a breath of fresh air. But instead, he’d have to wait for the courts to return from their festive break, which meant another few weeks of feeling as if he was ankle-deep in Holy Island’s mudflats.

  Trying not to feel depressed, he rang his babysitter, Emma.

  “I’m going to miss the tide,” he told her.

  “Hal!” The eighteen-year-old had already perfected the ability to make him feel two inches tall. “That’s the third time this week.”

  “I know, Em, I’m so sorry.”

  “I do have a life, you know.”

  “I know.” It was Friday night, and although she’d only be in the local bar with a couple of her friends, Hal knew she’d been looking forward to it. “I’ll pay you double.”

  “Hal...”

  “Triple,” he said, hoping he had enough cash in his wallet.

  She blew out a long breath. “You’d better.”

  “I will.” He promised her he’d be home around 12:30 p.m., then asked to speak to Jamie.

  “I’m going to be late,” he told his son.

  “Dad...”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You promised.”

  “I know.”

  “We were going to play Lego Harry Potter.”

  Hal had bought a second-hand PlayStation 4 for Christmas, and, because the kids would be with Rebecca and Charles on Christmas Day, he’d told them they could open it early.

  “We’ll play first thing in the morning, I promise. And tomorrow we’ll have pizza for dinner. How about that?”

  “Yeah, all right,” Jamie said, cheering up.

  Hal felt a wave of affection for his son. Not only did Jamie have to put up with his parents being separated, but half the time that he was supposed to be with his dad, Hal was working. The boy rarely complained, though. It was somewhat humbling when the most adult person in the family was the seven-year-old.

  “How are you doing?” Hal asked softly.

  “Okay. I’ve got a wobbly tooth.”

  “Want me to tie it to the door handle and yank it out?”

  “Dad! Gross.”

  Hal smiled. “How’s Brenna?”

  “She’s okay. She misses you.”

  He studied his feet. “Yeah.”

  “Have you shaved yet?” Jamie wanted to know.

  “I’ll do it when I get home.”

  “You know Brenna hates you having a beard. You promised her you’d shave it off.”

  Hal made a note to himself to stop promising stuff. “It’s cold! It keeps my face warm. Stop nagging. You’re worse than a fishwife.”

  “Ha! Charles says your beard makes you look like a hobo.”

  “He’s probably right.”

  “Maybe. He’s still a nob, though.”

  Hal gave a short laugh before he could stop himself. “Jamie,” he scolded, even though he agreed with his son.

  “Well he is. Dad... can I come and live with you, like, all the time?”

  Hal inhaled, his heart skipping a beat. It was the first time Jamie had brought it up since his parents had split two years ago. “Oh, mate...”

  “You’re my dad,” Jamie pointed out.

  “I know, but your mum would miss you so much if she didn’t see you.”

  “I could go over every other weekend or something.”

  “Jamie...”

  “I’d go to school at Lowick when the tides were right and on the island when they weren’t, like the other island kids do.”

  “You’ve done your research,” Hal murmured.

  “Dad, please...”

  “What about Brenna?”

  Jamie hesitated. “She could come too. She’ll be starting
school at Easter.”

  “Don’t you think your mum would miss you?”

  Jamie didn’t say anything.

  “Charles isn’t that bad,” Hal said, even though it went against the grain to say it. “He treats you well, doesn’t he?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jamie mumbled. “He’s not my dad.”

  “No, and he never will be. But he’s your mum’s partner now, so you have to get on with him.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ll talk more about it later,” Hal said. “I’d better go and finish this project, and then I’m done for Christmas.”

  “Is this the one about the castle?”

  “Yes. It’s nearly done. Just a few more hours.”

  “Okay. Will you wake me up when you come in?”

  “It’ll be past midnight,” Hal pointed out.

  “Even so.”

  “All right. See you later.” Hal hung up.

  He sat there for a moment, staring into space. He hated to think his son was unhappy. Jamie didn’t like Charles any more than he did himself. He did his best not to criticize Charles in front of the boy, but the kid didn’t have to be a genius to pick up his resentment.

  He’d have to think about it later, though. First, he had to get the project done.

  Chapter Three

  The rain had turned to sleet, and the traffic was heavy, which meant the journey took longer than Angel had anticipated. She tried to keep in high spirits, though, putting her playlist of Christmas songs on and singing loudly to the tunes as she continued to head northeast.

  It was a loooong way. She came off the M6 at Carlisle and took the A69 to Newcastle, then headed north on the A1, the gray North Sea churning off to her right whenever she neared the coast. By the time she approached the turnoff to Holy Island, it had been dark for some time, she was knackered, starving hungry, and thoroughly sick of Christmas songs.

  She paused the car at the beginning of the causeway and looked at her guide book, which had a list of safe crossing times for the month. Apparently, it was safe to cross until 7:40 p.m. She looked at the clock. It read 8.05 p.m.

  Leaning forward, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel. If she didn’t cross tonight, she’d have to return to Alnwick and try to find a hotel or B&B that had an available room. She didn’t want to do that. She wanted to get to her cottage and settle in. She sat back and gritted her teeth. Johnny Mathis was singing It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, and she made herself think about a roaring log fire and the pack of microwaveable Christmas puddings she’d brought with her that she’d been planning to eat over the course of the week.

  There was a sign in front of her, “Do Not Proceed When Water Reaches This Causeway.” The road gleamed in the light of the full moon that peeked out from behind the rainclouds. There was no sign of water covering the tarmac. For heaven’s sake, the people who made these instructions were always over-cautious with their estimates. It would probably be safe to cross until about 9 p.m. There was no way the tide would come in within thirty minutes.

  To her right, she thought she could see the line of poles marking the Pilgrim’s Way, an ancient footpath across the sand. She’d planned to make the walk one day as a kind of pilgrimage. Her heart beat a little faster. She was here! She’d made the journey, and she wasn’t going to stop now. She’d go a little way, and if she met any deep water, she’d just turn back.

  She put the car in gear, revved the engine, then set off along the road toward the island.

  Earlier that week, she’d done her research and looked at Google Maps. The Holy Island of Lindisfarne in Northumbria off the northeast coast of England was only three miles from east to west and one-and-a-half miles from north to south. The causeway ran for about a mile from the mainland to the tip of the island, then snaked along its coast for another few miles until it reached the little town. It wouldn’t take long to get there.

  She drove slowly, her heart racing. The moonlight glinted on the black sea to either side of the road. Waves lapped at the tarmac like fingers crawling toward the car. Dean Martin serenaded her with her favorite version of Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but the sleigh bells sounded oddly eerie in the dark night. She shivered, then braked as, before her, she saw a dark pool of water across the road. Ahead, a bridge arced across a lower-lying piece of the road. She only had to get through the small pool to reach the bridge.

  She drove into the pool, water spraying up the sides of the car. Keeping the revs high, she inched forward. It was a little deeper than she’d thought, but it only took a few minutes and she was through and onto the bridge.

  With relief, she drove slowly, looking up as she passed a refuge hut for stranded drivers jutting out of the water. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be needing it! She slowed the car as the moon went behind a cloud. There were no streetlights, and the only light came from the car lamps.

  She came to the end of the bridge and stopped the car.

  Ahead of her, water covered the tarmac. She could still see the white lines marking the middle of the road, so it could only be an inch or two thick, but the water glinted as far as the car lights stretched into the darkness. It was raining again, too, the lights showing thousands of yellow needles plunging into the sea.

  Well, she couldn’t stay here. She was about halfway, so there was no point in turning back. She’d have to go on.

  Setting her jaw, she edged the car forward off the bridge and onto the road.

  Immediately, she knew the water was deeper than she’d thought. She could feel the drag of it on the wheels, the spray of it up the sides of the car. Heart racing, she went a little faster, fear fighting with the part of her brain that insisted she take it slowly. There were waves now, real waves washing over the road. The road dipped a little, and water sprayed across the front of the car. To her horror, the engine coughed. She revved up and pressed forward, and then the car shifted beneath her.

  “Fuck!” She braked, which was the absolute worst thing she could have done, because water must immediately have flooded the tailpipe, and the engine died.

  “Jesus.” Her heart banged on her ribs. She pressed the button to restart the engine, but although it turned over, it refused to fire. Still, she kept trying, because she had no option—the sea was all around her now, a foot up the side of the car, and she could feel the vehicle lifting every time the waves raced in. OhmyGod, what had she done? How could she have been so stupid?

  Realizing the car wasn’t going to start again, she stopped pressing the button and put her face in her hands.

  She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to stay calm, knowing she couldn’t afford to panic. She was going to have to make her way back to the refuge hut. It wasn’t far, maybe twenty feet, and the sea was only a foot deep. She could do this.

  Suddenly, Dean Martin stopped singing, and then the car lights went out.

  Angel couldn’t help herself—she screamed. Immediately, she clamped a hand over her mouth and scolded herself. She was a shield maiden! Shield maidens didn’t scream like five-year-olds. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed her bag and pulled the strap over her head so it hung across her body, then picked up her phone and pressed the button to use it as a flashlight. Well, she’d said she was tired of people saving her. Nobody was going to come to her rescue tonight.

  She shifted in the seat, and then stopped, pulse racing. Her boots had splashed in water. It was coming into the car.

  “OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod...”

  Her voice trailed off, and an odd sense of calm settled over her.

  It would be so easy to stay there. To let the dark sea sweep over her and take her away. The place was deserted. It would just be her and the ocean, and then all the pain would be over.

  Her eyes filled with tears. Life was too hard. She wanted the suffering to stop. She was tired of getting up every day, breathing in and out, and dragging herself through the hours until she could go to bed and fade to black.

  Then she thought of Lesa.
Her sister would be devastated if she knew how she was feeling. Jackie would be so disappointed in her. And was this what her friends and family wanted?

  More importantly, was this what she wanted?

  For the first time, she let her mind think about the main reason she’d come to the island. About Eoin, and how he’d broken her heart.

  The previous December, when he’d left her, it had nearly destroyed her. But she was stronger now. She’d learned to fight, and Jackie had taught her that she didn’t need a man, or her sister, or her mother, or indeed anyone else—even though they thought they were being helpful—to make her complete. She was a shield maiden. The analogy wasn’t just a lighthearted choice; she’d picked the Viking warrior woman as a symbol for a reason.

  She didn’t need saving—she could do this on her own, and she wasn’t going to give in to her depression anymore. The black dog could go fuck itself.

  Energy swelled inside her at the thought that she was going to win the battle. She bent to pick up her coat, but it was already soaking, so she dropped it again. Quickly now, she pulled the door handle. For a moment, the door refused to open, the pressure of the ocean outside too great, but as more water rushed in, she managed to push it, gasping as the cold black sea flooded the interior. She got out, finding herself almost knee-deep. There was no point in trying to get her luggage out of the back—she wouldn’t be able to carry it, and she was now worried about making it to the refuge hut safely.

  Carrying just her bag, she began to make her way back to the bridge. It was like wading through black treacle. The sea sucked at her boots, and it was hard to keep her footing. Waves washed over the road, and it was difficult to see which way to go. She trod on a rock, turned over her ankle, stumbled, and then suddenly she was on her hands and knees, icy cold water soaking into her jeans and the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Her phone plunged into the sea, skittering away from her, and the light went out.

  “Fuck it!” She yelled the words and shoved herself to her feet, squealing as pain shot through her leg. Jesus, this was an absolute disaster. She was freezing, and she hadn’t known night could ever be this black. Her heart pounded, and she stood there for a moment in complete panic. It was okay to decide not to give in, but what the hell was she going to do?